


Just Got Back From the Discomfort – We’re Alright

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [112]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dr Nyarlathotep, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Robot Sex, Tactical Handjobs, cuddlecore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: collected Twelvedole prompt fills for all your time/space softboy needs





	1. Please don't cry, they stopped hours ago

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: Twelve is Wrecked™ physically and mentally on an adventure and when asked/interrogated afterwards by nardole he decides to go down the 'I'm fine' route. This insistence continues even as he reluctantly allows the help/cuddles/stitching up.

It was a mistake and a shitshow and an absolute crescendo of bad decisions and it’s over, now. The TARDIS grumbling as she lands home, her doors opening reluctantly for them. Stumbling over the threshold, back into everyday life. Jobs, responsibilities, a set schedule. Tea time, laundry day, lectures at 2 PM, a Netflix queue.

The sun is shining, for once: it’s a beautiful clear summer day that greets them. The Doctor’s arm over Nardole’s shoulder, the Doctor only kind of sorta supporting their own weight. Mostly just flopping around uselessly, and they’re heavier than they look. Nardole readjusts them, clenches his jaw, and soldiers on.

The TARDIS whines, and quiets, doors closing. He pours the Doctor onto the sofa, and stretches, flexing out the muscle kinks and ground gears. “You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” the Doctor says. They have a glazed, dazed look in their eyes, and they’re bruised, bleeding.

“You need fixing,” Nardole replies. Full mother-hen mode.

“I’m okay.”

“You’ve got - ” Nardole swipes some of the blood off of the Doctor’s forehead, briefly revealing a gash before the blood wells back up. “I’m getting the first-aid kit. Don’t die before I get back, okay?”

Tape and gauze and antiseptic and a shock-blanket and individually-wrapped paracetamol. Nardole rips open the antiseptic wipette packet and carefully cleans the Doctor’s face off. The smell of alcohol and blood; he bravely does not pass out.

“It’s fine. It’ll heal itself. Stop fussing.” The Doctor, swaying woozily.

“I’m not driving you to hospital to get stitches, this is my minimum level of fuss. So shush.” He peels a sticky-strip-thing off its paper, pinches the cut on the Doctor’s forehead together and then tapes over it. Gauze pad over that, more tape. He resists the impulse to kiss it all better.

“There you go. Job done. You can leave, now.”

“What you saw, what you went through -”

“Don’t want to talk about it. But I’m fine. You can go.”

“Can do, yeah,” Nardole says. “Won’t, though.” He sits next to the Doctor, careful to not jostle anything injured, which is currently most of them.

“Seriously. I don’t need coddling, this is pointless, I don’t want - ” They break off, eyes bright and wet, red-rimmed.

“Shut up. And even if you are fine, which you aren’t, fuck off; even if you are perfectly lovely and happy and great I am _not,_ okay? I’m not fine. So.” Nardole leans gently against the Doctor’s side, finds their hand, holds it carefully.

“We’re alright now,” the Doctor says quietly. “Hey? It worked out. Nothing to worry about.” To themself as much as to Nardole.

Nardole gently, delicately maneuvers the two of them around, trying to find somewhere where no one is in any more pain than they have to be. He winds up with the Doctor on his lap, cradled in his arms, head resting against his chest. Still bleeding, but hey, that’s what dry cleaning is for.

“This is stupid. Waste of time,” the Doctor mumbles, muffled, mouth against Nardole’s jumper.

“If saying that helps, then fine. But I’m not leaving you alone. And you’re gonna like it. Right?”

“Right,” the Doctor says. They squirm closer, then relax, eyes closing.

Nardole brushes their hair back, shifts to find a comfortable spot under all their pointy elbows, then settles into the groove of the sofa, closing his eyes too.


	2. Irrevocable, Motherfucker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for resting-meme-face, who prompted: twelvedole where nardole tries to help the doctor not get bored on earth by getting a pet and giving him a confusing handjob. the doctor. not the pet. to be clear.

Operation Keep The Doctor From Blowing Something Up Out Of Boredom (Again) is set to commence tomorrow. KtDFBSUOoB(A) is a multi-pronged, high-level plan, detailed extensively and neatly in a small notebook Nardole keeps on his person. It’s color-coded, artfully laid out, guaranteed to succeed. He’d gotten the idea from Pinterest.

(The ‘get things done’ system, not the Operation itself. Nardole knows better than to leave a trail on the university’s computer network.)

_Nearly there,_ Nardole thinks, taking deep calming breaths, finding his inner zen as the Doctor jams a trumpet bell into the mouth of a Hoover. 

* * *

Step one: the decoy.

“I’ve signed you up for a book club,” Nardole announces. He shoves the photocopied flier into the Doctor’s hand.

The Doctor looks down, and opens their hand, letting the paper waft away. “No you haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.” Nardole bends to retrieve the flier, and tucks it into the Doctor’s coat pocket. “You need to get out of the house. _Talk_ to people, instead of just shouting at them from a stage.”

“I talk to you,” The Doctor says. “And you can’t make me go.”

“If you don’t go, I’ll fix it so the Vault opens only for me, and then you won’t get to do the thing you think I don’t know you do. And remember: I am much, much better at net-sec than you are.”

The Doctor sulks, glaring. Nardole shrugs amiably, then shuffles off.

“Fine,” the Doctor calls after him, with a melodramatic air of defeat. “ _Fine_.”

 

* * *

The following Tuesday, the Doctor storms into the office, slamming all available doors, and some of them twice for good measure.

Nardole continues assembling the ingredients for Taco Tuesdays, humming to himself.

“Did you know: the average book club is considered a form of torture under the Geneva Convention?”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.” Nardole wipes his hands on a towel, adjusts his Hot Stuff Comin’ Through apron, and affixes a neutral expression to his face before turning around.

The Doctor is slumped at the kitchen table, in the least committed sitting position imaginable. “Oh. It was that bad. Tedious, boring people discussing a tedious, boring novel. Wasn’t even any refreshments, at least with those little miniature sandwiches and plastic cups of cheap wine it might have been somewhat tolerable, but.” They slide further down, very slowly falling off the chair. “Don’t make me go back. Please.”

Nardole arranges the bowls and plates and flowers and things into a pleasing tablescape. “I won’t. But you have to do something. Anything. Pick a hobby, any hobby. And sit up.”

The Doctor heaves a sigh and worms their way back into something approaching a normal sitting position. They reach for the cheese, grumbling under their breath.

“Ah-ah-ah. No tacos until you pick something.”

The Doctor rolls their eyes, looking for all the world like a petulant teenager. “Like what.”

“You tell me. The world is your oyster. Or Bristol is, anyway. Rock climbing?  Dungeons and Dragons? Knitting? Saltwater aquarium maintenance?”

That last one makes the Doctor perk up, tilt their head. “Could we get a pet?”

“Depends on the pet, I s'pose. I’m allergic to cats. Fish really are quite interest-”

“Bird,” the Doctor interrupts, tapping on the table. “I want a bird.”

Nardole pauses in the middle of strategic salsa application. “Okay.”

“I could go to the. The bird store, that’s a social interaction happening outside in the world. There’s probably bird forums online. Is that - can I eat now?”

Nardole cracks the cap off his beer, salutes, downs half of it in one go. He tries not to visibly cringe as the Doctor grabs a handful of cheese and shoves it directly into their mouth.

 

* * *

Through the miracle of the internet, they adopt an elderly African Grey named Beatrice and her attendant box of toys. Given free roam of the office, she elects to spend most of her time on top of the bookshelf by the door, yelling “Put wood int’ ‘ole” in a thick Mancunian accent whenever someone comes in.

Nardole begins to regret his life choices, in this regard and in others.

The Doctor is initially more distracted by the bird toys than the bird itself, picking each one up and carefully examining it like it’s an object of great mystical power.

“Why?” the Doctor asks, pointing at a brightly-colored, inexplicable jumble of plastic bits.

“Dunno,” Nardole says. “I’m not a bird.”

“Daft ‘apeth,” Beatrice yells.

The Doctor experimentally bites down on a small piece of balsa wood. Beatrice giggles. Nardole breathes in, and counts to ten; everything is going according to plan. Everything is fine.

 

* * *

Nardole is carefully, meditatively applying unicorn stickers to his notebook for Operation KtDFBSUOoB(A) (he really needs to come up with a catchier name) when the Doctor bursts into his bedroom.

“C'mere,” they say, panting slightly. “C'mon, c'mon.”

Nardole follows them dutifully.

“Watch this.” The Doctor motions at Beatrice, who swoops down from the bookshelf and flutters into place on the desk.

They pull the sonic screwdriver from their pocket, wave it around with a flourish, then turn it on, whirring, and then off.

Beatrice repeats the screwdriver’s noise, then bops her head. The Doctor tosses her a pea, also from their pocket; she snaps it up happily.

“Good girl. Very clever girl,” Nardole says.

“Do one,” she replies.

The Doctor beams with pride.

 

* * *

The Maximum Distraction Period (MDP) lasts about a week. After that, the Doctor does still enjoy their friendship with the jerk bird who for whatever reason hates Nardole, and they’re better than they were before - the moping and anxious pacing are slightly less omnipresent. Still present, though.

Beatrice is asleep and the Doctor is staring out the office window, up at the full moon. Nardole is tiptoeing up to them. The lights are off, just the cold glow of the night sky, all the city lights, to illuminate them.

They turn, just slightly, when a floorboard squeaks under Nardole’s foot.

“Hey,” Nardole says.

“Hey.” All hoarse-voiced and moonlit and quietly, beautifully melancholy.

Nardole, who buried most of his crush on this idiot several decades ago, now finds himself suddenly overwhelmed, and cast somewhat adrift. He swallows hard, and digs the notebook out of his pocket, flipping through the pages before he sees hot-pink highlighter.

CONS: VERY RISKY, the prim neat handwriting reads.  
PROS:

Past-Nardole had written something, and then went over it with a thick, chunky line of white-out. Not incredibly #GTD #aesthetic, that bit.

He moves closer to the Doctor, trying to regulate his breathing. The Doctor, to their credit, does not flinch away, even when Nardole leans against them. Shoulder-to-shoulder.

“I can’t do this any more,” the Doctor whispers. “I don’t know how to stay here. Two birds in a luxury cage. If our wings were clipped then at least we’d know we couldn’t fly off. That there wasn’t an escape we weren’t making.”

“Uhh?” Nardole whines, fluctuating along one or three octaves. A panic noise. He slips his arm around the Doctor’s lower back, and nudges them into place. Facing him, or would-be-facing-him if they weren’t staring out the window.

“Hey,” he says, voice cracking. His hands on the Doctor’s chest, palms flat, sliding down. This is a measured, reasonable action, this is technically part of the Operation. A strategic move. He stops at the Doctor’s belt buckle, listening to his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Oh. Um. Right. What?” The Doctor stares down at him, eyebrows furled.

“Stop me, if this isn’t something you want,” Nardole ekes out. He regulates his breathing, he finds his inner zen, he undoes the Doctor’s belt and trousers.

The Doctor frowns, squeezes his shoulder hard, then ducks forward, burying their face in his neck. “Okay,” they say, trembling. “Okay, okay.”

Nardole counts to ten and then slips his hand between the Doctor’s legs. They jump, a bit, and cling tighter, their arms wrapped firmly around him. It’s an awkward position, this would be better if one of them were sitting down or ideally lying in a nice comfy bed, but they’re here now, in the dark, and it’s happening the way it’s happening.

“I’m a touch telepath, by the way,” the Doctor says, mostly coherently, as Nardole squeezes his hand under the waistband of their boxers.

“So if I do this,” Nardole says, Doing That, “then you can read my mind?”

“Sort of.” The Doctor shudders, thrusts into his hand.

Psychic handy, hey, just like on Pinterest. Absolutely part of the plan. With a special highlighter color and calligraphy and everything.

 

* * *

The Doctor’s doing their trousers back up, arranging their 20 coats back into place. Nardole is watching, something thick and fuzzy in the back of his throat. Something crowding his heart.

“Got you distracted for ten minutes, that’s something,” he says.

“Yeah. Uh, thanks. Does this - does this count as a hobby?”

“Probably? I mean. If you want - ?”

The Doctor stares him down. He scrunches where eyebrows aren’t, shrugs.

“Okay,” the Doctor says.

“Have you got it sorted?” Beatrice yells. “Now stop mitherin’ me, like.”


	3. An Obscure Moon Lighting an Obscure World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: nardole "i haven't seen MY true face in years" nolastname is the real eldritch abomination here. nyardoleotep, if you will.

It’s been like this all day. The bastard’s not even trying to be subtle. Nardole whirls around, hands on his hips.

“Why are you staring at me?”

The Doctor quickly looks away. “I’m not.”

“You are. You’re following me around, and you’re staring.”

Shrugging, the Doctor resumes eye-contact. Direct, unwavering: Nardole would be unnerved if he didn’t get the sense he’s somehow being looked through, like the Doctor is trying to focus on something that isn’t actually there.

“Trying to figure out what you are. Aside from Frankenstein’s monster, I mean.”

“You know, it hurts my feelings when you say things like that.” Nardole takes a step back.

The Doctor takes a step forward. “There’s nothing wrong with being a monster. Wasn’t meant as an insult.”

“Your intent doesn’t - ” Nardole sighs. “Anyway. You made me, you know exactly what I am.”

“I know the component parts. Well, most of them. But what you actually are is something…else.” The Doctor takes another step forward.

Nardole stands his ground. This continues until they’re awkwardly close, and Nardole’s brain is in overdrive trying to banish the compulsive thought of ‘what if they accidentally kissed each other or something.’ He smiles nervously.

“What’s it like?”

“Um?” Nardole leans back, attempting to maintain at least a few inches of breathing room.

The Doctor follows him. “Being you. What’s it feel like? Stupid question, never mind. May I try something?”

Say no, run away, say no while running away, just say no -

“Okay,” Nardole squeaks.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” the Doctor says softly. They smile reassuringly, then plant their hand square on Nardole’s face.

“Uh,” Nardole says, muffled.

The world falls away.

 

 

Nardole comes to on the floor, a little banged-up from presumably being dropped like a hot potato. “Find what you were looking for?”

“Sort of,” the Doctor says, from fairly far away. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why don’t you?” Nardole rolls over, picks lint off the carpet. The Doctor’s in his peripheral vision, backed up against the wall. He hazards a glance: they look half-afraid. Nardole can’t help but feel a little pleased.

“Touché. How long?“

“Since the second kidney, I think. You?” They’re back to staring at each other, now.

The Doctor grins, almost feral. “Oh, I was born like this. Are you gonna stay on the floor?”

“It’s nice down here. Might take a nap.” And his legs aren’t quite working, but he’s not about to bring that up.

“Right. I’ll just be - ” The Doctor gestures to the door. “Later alligator.”

“After a while, crocodile.” Nardole flips onto his back, closes his eyes.

He listens to the Doctor leave. And then come back, and then there’s a pillow bouncing off his face, and the Doctor leaves again. He sighs heavily and tucks the pillow under his head.


	4. Here to Hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Twelvedole, between Oxygen and Extremis

“Okay,” Nardole says. “Wait, what?”

“If you want to call me to task. Which you should, let’s be honest. Just - don’t ask for eye contact.” The Doctor shrugs. “Can’t see a damn thing.”

“Oh. So. You lied.”

“I lied.” Easier, so much easier to be flippant and callous than it is to actually stop and think.

“And you’re still blind.” All the heat’s gone out of his voice.

“Yep. What I said.”

“Permanently?”

“Who knows.” The Doctor feels around for the edge of the desk, then the arm of the chair, and sits down heavily. They’ve somewhat lost their taste for dramatics, just now.

They can hear Nardole rustling closer, the clunk-whine of their ambulatory motor.

“Why’d you lie?” Nardole asks. Not whining, though a little plaintive. “To them, okay. But to me?”

“Thought maybe I could get away with it. So you wouldn’t have to waste time worrying. And.”

“And?”

“I don’t like this. It doesn’t work. I don’t work.”

Nardole edges closer. “There’s braille. Text-to-speech. Guide dogs. Whatever widgets you feel like inventing.”

“And most of that relies on the benevolence of strangers,” the Doctor says.

“Which you don’t trust.”

“No.”

“And you’d rather go it on your own.”

“Yes.”

Nardole rests his hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. Hesitant, like _I’m still mad_ and _fuck you_ and _it’ll be okay._

“No one’s an island,” he says. “Everyone needs help sometimes. The world might not adapt to us, and that’s not great, but we can adapt to the world. Maybe you feel hopeless, but there’s ways around that.”

“Feel free to fuck off at any time,” the Doctor says. “Seriously. You can leave now.”

“And if I don’t?”

The Doctor shrugs. Nardole keeps his hand in place.

“I can help. I’m here anyway, I can help.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Sort of it is, kind of it’s just happening. It’s complicated. He squeezes the Doctor’s shoulder. “I’ll be here, yeah? Just call, I’ll come.”

The Doctor nods.

“I would really appreciate it if you stopped making such shit-awful decisions, though,” Nardole amended. “Just saying.”


	5. I don’t know about art but I think your music’s shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Nardole ends up kicking the Doctors arse

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” the Doctor said, cradling their face in their hands. To be completely honest, they were a little impressed.

“Neither can I. Are you alright?”

The Doctor glared through their fingers. “You just punched me. How do you think I am.”

“Deterred, hopefully.” Nardole adjusted his glasses, trying to look responsible and in charge.

“And if I’m not.” The Doctor wiped the blood off, and then wiped their hands off on their coat. They stepped backwards towards the TARDIS.

Nardole stepped forward. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m thinking about it,” the Doctor said, feinting left and then right. And then left again. And then right.

Nardole just stared at them patiently.

“If I were to, for example.” The Doctor held up an index finger: example forthcoming. They grinned, then dashed towards the TARDIS.

Got three, maybe four feet before Nardole tackled them to the ground.

“I don’t enjoy doing this,” Nardole said unhappily. He pulled the Doctor’s arms behind their back gently but firmly, and held them there.

“Are you sure?” Their voice muffled by the carpet.

“Yes. Do you enjoy me doing this?”

“No. Why would I?”

Nardole sighed, releasing the Doctor’s arms and clambering to his feet. “No clue, but it keeps happening, and I’m struggling to understand why.”

The Doctor rolled onto their back, flopping out spread-eagle. Nardole held his hand out; the Doctor observed it, filed the information away, and got up on their own.

“Can we have a quiet night, please? My hand hurts and I’m tired.”

“My face hurts, I think I win,” the Doctor said, dusting themself off.

Fair. “I’ll make the tea if you promise to be good,” Nardole sighed.

The Doctor shrugged, like _of course I’ll be good, I’m always being good. Look at me being a grown-up and not a petulant child._

Nardole rolled his eyes and shuffled off towards the kitchenette, trying to ignore the Doctor sticking their tongue out at him in his peripheral vision.  


	6. See Through Person

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: The first time Twelve and Nardole cuddled

The first part of the message from River was easy enough to deliver. Nardole was quite proud of how that turned out, actually. The dramatic hooded entrance was absolutely the right decision, an excellent level of flair. And it worked, and everything is going as well as he can expect.

Considering, y'know, the whole ‘grieving widower and displaced robot-man-thing escort terrifying monster to Earth where they will be roommates for approximately forever’ thing. 

Second part, though.

 

 

“We’ll take our time. Find a good place to - ” They break off, half-choked up. Hand rubbing hard at the back of their neck. “Settle down.”

Nardole isn’t entirely sure he’s part of that 'we’, there. “Good plan,” he says. “No sense rushing into things.” Sure, being in the vortex is giving him the heebie-jeebies and he still doesn’t trust the Doctor to not kidnap him and run off to god knows where, but he’s trying to psych himself up here.

The Doctor looks exhausted and out of it, like they’re only just holding themselves together, like they’re looking forward to completely dissolving at the earliest opportunity. Maybe now’s the right time? Or maybe later, when things have calmed down?

“Or maybe there’s no such thing as the 'right time’ so stop overthinking it,” he says out loud.  

“Sorry?”

Nardole grits his teeth, and goes for the window of opportunity. “River wanted me to give you something,” he says quickly, before he can talk himself out of it. “Here it is. Please enjoy.”

Oh, why did he say that? It’s too late, though. While the Doctor is busy looking baffled, Nardole forges ahead. Two inches away, he pauses to commiserate with the Doctor’s expression of panic, then scrunches his eyes closed before giving them a very quick, very chaste kiss on the cheek, and the bare minimum of a half-hug.

There, it’s done. Happy now?

“That’s all,” Nardole says.

He’s about to run for the hills and never speak of it again when he realizes the Doctor is, bizarrely, not making any smart-arse remark. Instead - sort of laughing, and sort of crying, and apparently this is where the Doctor has scheduled their inevitable breakdown.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Fine. C'mere.” He wraps the Doctor up in a hug, a proper bear-hug this time.

He’s not entirely opposed to this lasting as long as it is, only he’s been on his feet all day. “Does this place have any other rooms? Such as we could sit down in.”

The Doctor pulls back, wipes their eyes, looks away. “Um. Yes, but - I’m alright, thank you, but. You should have a bedroom down the hall, if you’re tired. I’ve got things to do, and - ”

“No,” Nardole says firmly, as if to a small child, or an emotionally-challenged man-boy. “I’ve been tasked with helping you. I’m not leaving you.”

“ _Really_ wish you would.”

“This ship. Psychic architecture, right? Low-level. You need something, it makes it. Yes?”

The Doctor glares, the effect somewhat diminished by the mess of their hair and their sort of overall crumpled appearance. “Yes.”

“So c'mon.” Nardole grabs the Doctor’s hand and tugs them into the nearest corridor.

 

 

The TARDIS isn’t particularly fond of him, Nardole can tell, but it nudges them forward with a warm, soft, pillowy momentum until he finds a room with a kettle, and a sofa, and a nicely-crackling fireplace.

“What’s it I’m meant to be doing here, exactly.”

Nardole starts the kettle, rummages around the cupboards til he finds the tea. “You sit down.”

“Yeah.”

“And then you shut up.”

“Okay.”

The Doctor sits down and, for the most part, shuts up. Nardole distracts himself with the minutiae of tea, and the truly horrifying length of time the Doctor waves at him to keep going with the sugar.

Two mugs, two acquaintances apparently ascending to a new level in their relationship. Nardole attempts to avoid the inherent awkwardness here and settles down next to the Doctor, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“You should eat something. I know how you get.” He pulls out a biscuit from the pack and prods it at the Doctor’s face. “Here comes the airplane.”

The Doctor squints, recoils.

“Sorry, was that too much?”

“Yeah, that was weird.” The Doctor taps their thigh nervously, then grabs the biscuit out of Nardole’s hand and shoves it in their mouth.

This isn’t so bad, considering. The fire is lovely. The biscuits are only slightly stale. And he is, against his better judgement, and in full awareness that this is 100% not the time, enjoying having a bit of a cuddle.

“D'you want me to read you something?”

“Right. Okay. Your turn now to shut up.” There’s not much heat in there, and the Doctor isn’t budging, but Nardole takes the hint.

It’s been a long day, after all. He could use the rest. He sighs, and snuggles in closer, and lets himself relax in the moment.


	7. Y'all Boots Hats?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: 12/missy/nardole--worst. Threesome. EVER.

Missy gestured the Doctor off to the side. ‘Exasperated’, would be a polite word. The Doctor dutifully joined her tactical huddle.

“You brought an egg,” she whispered forcefully. “To a sexual encounter.”

They rolled their eyes. “One: be nice. Two: did you expect me to just pull someone off the street?”

“I didn’t expect you to bring anyone.” Missy plastered a cheerfully terrifying grin on her face and waved at Nardole. Nardole waved genially back.

“But you said…Nevermind.” The Doctor stepped back, out of her orbit.

“Oh.” Realization dawning. She followed them, taking their hands and sweeping them into a stiff, slightly unwilling tango position. “Darling, sometimes in the heat of the moment, I say things that aren’t strictly speaking true.”

She let them go, benevolently. Forcing the Doctor to dance was almost too cruel, even for her. She was perfectly fine dancing with herself, besides. Imaginary partners never step on your toes. She twirled off, humming under her breath.

In the background, Nardole was sat primly at the table, periodically clearing his throat in a variety of different ways. The Doctor sat down next to him, long legs splayed out. They were awfully close. Missy focused on the next turn: yes, that was definite physical contact.

“Have the two of you been enjoying a bit of houghmagandy?” She snapped into a graceful braceo, then froze. “You know I hate to share.”

“That’s flamenco, not tango,” the Doctor said. Pedantic git.

“Impressive, though,” Nardole offered.

Missy relaxed her arms. “Well? Have you?”

“Didn’t understand the question, ma'am,” Nardole said.

The Doctor just blushed, curling up into a spiky defensive ball of elbows.

“The two of you, have you been fucking?” Accent ramped up for maximum abrasiveness.

Nardole squeaked. The Doctor blushed harder and buried their face in their hands. They both started talking, a jumble of words Missy didn’t bother to pick apart. Something about 'it’s complicated’ and 'he’s got a crush on me’ and 'we cuddle sometimes.’ They trail off.

“Wait, what? I don’t - no.” Nardole folded his arms, looking guilty.

The Doctor dropped their hands and stared at him tiredly.

Even in one thousand years of forced leisure, she did not have time for this. She was over it. Let’s go.

“Take your clothes off,” she commanded. Off-hand. This was boring enough for the faint spark of interest to be buried easily. She stared at the two of them, making a 'go faster’ motion.

They stared back, and at each other. Nardole cleared his throat again. The Doctor shrugged.

“C'mon c'mon c'mon. Kiss, at least. You know you want to, baldie. Go for it. Get in there.”

Nardole tentatively loosened his coat, gently covered the Doctor’s hand with his own. Oh, no, he was going to be _tender_. This was excruciating. Missy sighed, and flounced over. Really, did she have to do everything herself?


	8. Deep Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: Twelvedole, on a pre-Bill 'I miss space' day

“I know,” Nardole says. “I know, I know.” He strokes the Doctor’s hair.  
  
“D'you fuckin’ really,” the Doctor grumbles, voice muffled by Nardole’s pajama top.  
  
“Well. No. But I can imagine.” He holds the Doctor close to his bosom, like a child, except a man-child, and not that so much as a petulant ancient whatever. Anyway.  
  
“Your grand plan is to just physically keep me here? Very clever, knew I kept you around for a reason.”  
  
“No,” Nardole says patiently, gently rocking the idiot in his arms. “You’re stronger than me. You can leave if you want. I can’t stop you.”  
  
“So you’re. What.” The Doctor very nearly begins to relax.  
  
“Doing what I can to make staying here less painful and lonely? Dunno, I’m just winging it. You looked like you could use a hug. So I’m hugging you.”  
  
The Doctor does actually relax, here, in a defeated, boneless sort of way. If they start doing that woe-is-me teary-eyed thing, Nardole will melt entirely. He’s not the strongest of men.  
  
They don’t do that, though. Or they do, but also push themselves up, and bite their lip, and straddle him, and then kiss him.  
  
Nardole enthusiastically kisses them back before coming to his senses. He breaks away, holding the Doctor at bay. They’re stronger than him, sure, somehow, but under his hands they feel slight, small. Narrow-shouldered and scrawny - well, a bit soft in the midsection, but nothing to write home about - fragile, anyway. Easily breakable, willing to be held back.  
  
(‘Willing to be held back’, now there’s a thought Nardole will absolutely not revisit while alone for prurient purposes.)  
  
“What are you doing?” he asks, hands firm on the Doctor’s upper arms.  
  
“Thought it was obvious. Or are you really that thick?”  
  
“No. I mean, what’s your plan, here? Are you trying to distract me? Or avoid your actual emotions? Or - ”  
  
“Does it matter?” they ask. “I’m here now. I’m not running away. I’m not leaving, unless you want me to. And I don’t think you want me to. So. Can’t we just - do this?” They lean into his grasp, something wild and desperate in their eyes.  
  
This idiot boy-thing, probably playing him, probably angling for some particular outcome. But still. They’re right, they are here now, very much here. Even if Nardole was strong enough to push them away, would he? Should he? Or should he take the various opportunities on offer? He’ll weigh the options later, maybe. For now, he just shrugs, and tugs the Doctor in close, and kisses them again. He’s always been weak for this sort of thing.


	9. Caution Clouds/Sticky Fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: a good old-fashioned twelvedole robo-tentacle fucking story, choking and deepthroating optional/ strongly encouraged

“I can turn it off, if you like.”

The Doctor is staring down at the tent in Nardole’s trousers, slightly baffled. They’d been kissing on the official Telly Sofa, which they did sometimes, and had gotten a bit handsy, which was new; a bold move, activating his latest upgrade, but the time had seemed right.

“Turn it off,” the Doctor repeats. Not a command, just a ‘wait, what now?’ They frown, still staring.

Nardole sighs. Maybe not the right time. Maybe not ever the right time, come to think. He’s about to flick the robo-boner switch to ‘off’ when the Doctor lays a hand lightly on his bulge. Okay, okay. They’re curious, at least, that’s a start.

“I can also, um. Swap it out, if you’d prefer something else,” Nardole says thickly. “Got a whole box of bits, they attach magnetically, really quite ingenious.”

The Doctor shrugs. “No preferences here.” They squeeze gently. “This feels good?”

“Yep,” Nardole squeaks, squirming. It’s not just the touching, which is very nice, but the sheer intensity with which the Doctor is regarding him. Not with lust, sure, but the level of fascination is almost equally heady. Pun not intended.

“May I?” The Doctor gestures, and gracelessly flops off the sofa, kneeling in front of him.

Nodding, Nardole leans back, sucking in as the Doctor slips their hands under his waistband and unbuttons his trousers.

“Huh,” the Doctor says, once the Eroti-tron 3000 Luxury Cyber-Cock is revealed in all its electric-blue glory. They’re very close. Like, can-feel-their-breath-via-the-fuck-sensor-technology close.

Nardole’s hips buck up of their own accord. The Doctor moves just in time to not be slapped in the face. “Thanks,” he says, for reasons he can’t process and will certainly obsess over anxiously in the future.

“So it…” The Doctor pokes the side of the cock with their forefinger. “Like do you just turn it on?”

“Um. I can. Or, this is what I have it set to, it can, uh. Like, sort of, if I’m, you know, into the proceedings, enjoying them I mean, right, it’ll…” He holds his hand out flat and then tilts it up, like and thus: an erection.

The Doctor raises their eyebrows: huh, the more you know. Then they promptly press the release button, and Nardole’s dick pops off.

It’s a weird feeling, to put it mildly.

“So the base,” the Doctor says, head buried bizarrely non-erotically between Nardole’s thighs. “Accepts and translates input from the attachment. Makes sense.”

They tap the metal contact with an insufferably smug expression. Nardole jolts, grabs the Doctor’s hair and yanks hard, yelling something unintelligible. Fuck, that was too much. Or not enough. Or something.

“Sorry,” he says, relinquishing the Doctor’s scalp.

“Oh, don’t be. D'you want it back on?” They wave the disembodied cock.

“Uh.” Maybe?

“Either way is fine. Only with the way this seems to work, I think I can…do something.” They lean back, looking a little nervous, or embarrassed, either way very sweetly and attractively unsure. Combined with the disarray of their hair, it’s an appealing look for them.

“Whatever,” Nardole says shakily. “I mean. Okay. Yeah. Sure. Just - fuck.”

“Since you’ve shown me yours, only fair I show you mine. If you want.”

It’s like pulling teeth. Yes, obviously, please do.

The Doctor grabs Nardole’s thighs and bows their head. There’s a pause. A very, very long pause.

“Are you not gonna take your kit off?” Nardole asks, trying not to whine too much.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Well, yes, but not like you’re thinking. Shut up and be patient.”

“Okay.” He waits. He’s very patient. He’s starting to second-guess what’s actually happening here when he feels it. The thing, whatever it is.

Their hands on his thighs sort of - blurring. Changing shape. He looks down and he can’t focus on the Doctor, can’t fix them in place.

May I? they ask, inside his head. Flickering closer, very close, and hesitating, hovering.

Nardole braces himself, as much as he can considering he wasn’t entirely expecting this. The world of them underneath their face. The them, them, climbing up and bearing down. He arches his back, motors whining. The Doctor pulls the veil back.

It’s all just so much.

“Go for it,” he says weakly. They go. The thing inside them sprawling out, wrapping around him. Tendrils pushing into his mouth, which he parts obligingly. A monster on top of him, perfunctorily wearing a human-shaped suit. Hand in hand and the whatever they are sliding in close.

You want this, he feels them say. This, here.

A force pressing down, a hand on his mouth and another hand probing into his cock-socket and a hand cupping the back of his head and a hand palming the curve of his belly. The Doctor pulls tight around him, warm and half-terrifying. Too many hands. Nardole capitulates. Or welcomes this, or something. The eager spread of physical contact, the psychic panic, the fall-apart. Nardole holds still. There’s a question being asked, an is this okay?

“Yeah. It’s okay,” Nardole says. “It’s good. It - aw, jeeze. Oh.”

I’ll stop if you want. The Doctor as a Thing with hands all over everywhere and a weight far heavier than their slight frame could reasonably account for on his chest. He can’t breathe. He finds himself enjoying that.

A hand on his side and a hand gently stroking his face and a hand in his mouth and a hand filling his Deluxe Pleasure Unit. The spark-sprawl of them, all over him.

Still okay? the Doctor asks, loose-limbed and many-limbed and scattershot, the gentle psychic push. All over him, all of their whatever crowding him.

Nardole spits the hand-tendril out of his mouth. “Just. If we’re doing this. Are we doing this? We’re doing this. Okay. Go harder. Right? Go for broke, just-” He inhales sharply. Everything the Doctor is curling around them, digging in, and it feels like they’re laughing. Nardole tries to relax. One hand patting his head and one squirming towards his arse and one under his jumper and at least three going straight into him. All of them everywhere til he’s breathless and split apart, all the 500 hands pulling him away from himself, or back into himself, or something.

“It’s okay,” he says again, voice gone raspy. “Keep going.”

The Doctor nods, and nods, and nods again. All their hands in a thumbs-up. Most of those hands embedded in Nardole. Nardole returns the thumbs-up, then gives in. A whole world around him, and so many teasing fingers and fuck does it feel amazing. Bizarre, but amazing, and besides, he can’t judge. He’s never come before like this, he realizes, just after he realizes he’s about to come. Not sure what happens without the ejaculation module. He supposes he’s about to find out. Hopefully nothing short-circuits.


	10. Southpaw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: some more Twelvedole would be nice. Say something with reading? or listening? A day with precipitation (not a precipitous day, though). Something cozy?

“Come with me,” Nardole says. And it’s easy, so easy to follow. The Doctor’s become accustomed to taking orders.

(This is patently false - they’re as bad as they’ve always been, just now there there’s an element of feigned self-sacrifice. And the weight of the day, and the lie that says that it’s alright, it’s alright if they just give in. Just for now.)

So they give in and they follow this man, this very strange robot man, out of the TARDIS and into the office and towards the window, towards the chair in front of the window. Storm clouds gathering outside. Nardole sits down, tucking his legs into place - the traditional mechanical clunk and whine - and then gestures.

“C'mon,” he says. Arms open wide.

The Doctor pauses, and rolls their eyes, and then awkwardly clambers up. All knees and elbows. There’s a hand on their lower back - steady, and one around their neck, tugging at their hair - a slight ulterior motive. They settle down. Nardole grunts intermittently, whenever an elbow goes wrong.

“I’ve gotten some new reading material in,” Nardole says, a little short of breath. “And crosswords. Sudoku. If you want.”

The Doctor doesn’t want anything, anymore. That’s the oath. No desire no need no nothing, just a promise. Ascetic and abstract. The world as it is, Earth as it presents itself, and no escape. Sudoku doesn’t feel hugely appropriate, here. So, in lieu, they find a nook in Nardole’s embrace, and burrow in deeper. And deep breaths, the inhale and exhale, the steady living, this place and this time. One second to the next.

A hand rubbing their shoulders. “It’s alright,” Nardole says.

A hand rubbing their shoulders, their side, coming to rest on their leftmost hip. It’s nice. Comforting, so long as they don’t draw attention to the fact that it’s comforting. Because they shouldn’t need that, really, after all these years.

Shouldn’t need or want any of this. The clouds break, harshly, a sheet of solid rain passing over the roof above them. Where they’re warm, and dry, and where there’s a hand on them reassuringly, where they’re resting against someone warm and soft and friendly.

The Doctor stretches, just a bit. Nuzzling in as the thunder strikes. Nardole shifts to accommodate.

“I mean this as a very positive thing - I’m quite happy you’re a bit less angular than the last time we tried this,” Nardole says. He pats the Doctor’s hair. “Still all elbows, though.”

“More comfortable,” the Doctor mumbles. Curling in closer, arms outstretched. Nardole breathes in; they follow along.

“Mostly, yeah.” Gathering them up, the loose pile of the Doctor in his hands. “Still a little pointy. But slightly less pointy now. It’s nice.”

The Doctor digs in deeper, winds up wedged between the arm of the chair and the general benevolent bulk of Nardole. The rain beating down outside, Nardole’s arm firmly around them.

“So you’d be - willing, I s'pose…”

Nardole tenses.

“To call in some takeaway. Chips. Or crisps, at least. And dip.”

“Chips and dip,” Nardole echoes.

“Yeah. If we’re doing the Enjoyable Things. And if you like me, uh. Softer.” They pull back, then press their slight (albeit now very minimally rounded-out, just a titch) frame down firmly onto the generally solid foundation that is Nardole. (May the heavens absolve him but he does quite enjoy being partially responsible for this razor-sharp scrawny arsehole being less obnoxious to hold. Decently fed, they’re significantly less annoying and slightly more enjoyable, in terms of cuddling.) “I have a hilariously fast metabolism, so you’ll need to continue to put work in.”

Nardole grips them firmly, hands only just daring to nudge under all the layers of fabric. “Menu in the usual pocket?”

“One or the other.”

Nardole pats their tiny flat arse, then slides up, hands going deep into their coat pockets. There’s the number for the closest good pizza place somewhere in here.


	11. Life of Leisure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon, who prompted: can i get some twelvedole two bros sitting in a hottub awkward homoerotic tension please

“Where are you?” The Doctor fished the sonic screwdriver out of their pocket, tapped it twice against their thigh. The Robo-Tracker setting switched to through wishful thinking, they followed the proximity beeps down the labyrinth of the TARDIS’s corridors.

“Some place where I’m busy.” Nardole’s voice was tinny and echoed over the comms, but clearly annoyed. And shifty, also, like he had something he was trying to hide.

The Doctor chose to ignore both the annoyance and the shiftiness, and continued meandering through the corridors. “I’ve got a thing. Need your help.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Yes, of course.” The sonic whined out a lengthy alert tone, then fell silent. The Doctor hesitated very briefly at the nearest door before barging in.

“Is it really? Or are you lying to make your life feel more exciting?”

Nardole’s voice over the comms lagged just enough behind Nardole in person to be hugely aggravating; the Doctor flinched, and waved the sonic around vaguely until the PA system mercifully turned off.

“It’s - ” They paused, spun around, very carefully and quickly observed their surroundings. A reasonable copy of an Earth backyard, somewhere West-ish - the trees, the stars in the skybox, the general shape of the patio furniture. Concrete, trimmed grass. A very small pool of water set into the concrete. Nardole in the pool. Nardole in the pool eating spaghetti, surrounded by empty beer bottles.

It wasn’t urgent, but it could have been, and it was the principle of the thing, the Doctor didn’t like losing even if they weren’t entirely sure what game they were playing, and besides they were in charge so it was urgent if they said so, but - Nardole did look happy, content. And it would be mean to get him out of that and into hacking the database of a library just because the Doctor had gone on a research tangent that wound up needing the results of a study on AI integration in 3400’s New London. Maybe that mattered, maybe being nice mattered. They weren’t sure what would come out of their mouth next.

“It can wait,” they finish.

“Good.” Nardole sat his plate back down on the ground, fork resting daintily on the rim.

“Why’re you in water.”

“It’s a hot tub.” Nardole shifted up, splashing, and fumbled around blindly in the cooler behind him before coming up with two bottles. He flicked the caps off with his thumb and forefinger, held one out to the Doctor.

The Doctor edged around the pool, accepted the bottle gracelessly, and then there was a weird sort of _moment_ and they averted their eyes, staring up at the fake night sky. “Yes, okay. But why?”

“It’s nice.”

“Why.”

“Hot.”

“As implied by the name.” The Doctor looked back down at Nardole before hiding their face behind a slightly mis-aimed swig. Wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but significantly less overwhelming than wine, which any decent bottle of was essentially a punch in the face from time itself. Too much history, too  much context; plain grape juice was infinitely better.

“I get cold,” Nardole said patiently. “I like being warm. I am enjoying being in the warm thing.”

“Makes sense.” The Doctor scoped out the available chairs, judging each on comfort and relative distance from the whole ‘Nardole in water, doing a private hobby, possibly less clothed than usual, and possibly this was more intimate than generally accepted’ situation.

“Built it myself. The room was already here, just needed the plumbing. Basic drag-and-drop.” Nardole preened, humble-not-humble.

“You’re pushing your luck, y'know. I’m not fond of anyone modifying the TARDIS aside from me, let alone…Well. You could’ve just said you found it. I would’ve believed you. Lots of stuff here I’ve forgotten about.”

Nardole splashed deeper under, arms floating, bottle held just above the water line. “I think I’m owed some creature comforts, all I do for you.”

“Oh, come on - wait. Is this banter? You know my official stance on the subject.”

“Need something to keep us busy. You invent an emergency, I build hot tubs and initiate _banter_.”

Another weird moment, another split-second of tension. The Doctor stared at the ground, rubbing their hand along the bottle, condensation smearing. Nardole made an odd, choked noise.

“You get cold too,” Nardole said, still odd and choked but loosening as he went along. “You keep the TARDIS at human-friendly temperatures for _reasons_. The office, well, that makes sense. But you’re always wearing so many layers. I mean, I do too, but then sometimes I’m here, with fewer layers, and it’s nice.”

The Doctor took another sip, considered the flavor components, the provenance, the place of a cheap beer in the grander scheme of things. At least it wasn’t an IPA. “Are you drunk?”

“Plastered,” Nardole said happily. “C'mon in.”

“What?”

“You - ” Nardole pointed at the Doctor. “Come here.” Pointing down at the water. “Relax. Warm up.”

The Doctor considered, and shrugged, and ambled towards the pool.

“Hey. Hey, no, right, not in all that. No shoes, no coat. At the very least.”

Coat shrugged off, boots kicked into the middle distance, the Doctor gestured, like 'is this enough to gain entry to your tiny kingdom?’

“Maybe hoodie off, as well? And jumper.”

The Doctor obliged. “Anything else?”

Nardole was staring at them, gone slightly breathless. “I mean - no, no, that’s fine.”

Scowling, for no reason other than they felt their face ought to be doing something, the Doctor slid, opposite end from Nardole, into the mini-pool. Hot tub. Whatever.

“Socks on, that’s a bit weird, but. Hey. Cheers.” Nardole leaned over, held his bottle out before the Doctor begrudgingly clinked it with theirs.

“So. What happens now?”

Nardole squeaked, drew back against the wall. “Nothing! Nothing.”

“We just sit here.” The Doctor squinted, rifling through their mental rolodex of Emotions, looking for anything to map to what Nardole’s face was doing.

“It’s nice.”

It was. Like being gently boiled alive. Physical stress melting away. They’d almost forgotten what it was like to be warm and comfortable. Wet socks aside. They smiled, and Nardole smiled stiffly back, and their mental fingers paused on an entry in their mental rolodex. Oh.

“I’m making you nervous,” the Doctor announced, nearly apologetically. “Sorry. Um. Dunno if I get it, but I’ll just - ” They heaved themselves out of the water, flopped back onto the ground. Dripping, fabric clinging.

“Not in a bad way. And you’re making it worse.” Nardole was staring, eyes flicking between the Doctor’s face, their trousers, and their t-shirt, the latter two molded to their body. _Oh._ This was one of those things, then. With the…the what have you.

“Um,” the Doctor said eloquently.

“Not in a bad way. Just. Whoops. Forget I said - right, you’re shivering, okay, just - come back in. C'mon.”

One of those things, with the stuff. The Doctor chugged the rest of their beer, noting the noises of confirmation Nardole made in response, and rolled the bottle away into the darkness, slid back into the water. Just closer, now. With more intent. Since this was that thing. They might have set their alcohol sensitivity too high.

“Okay,” Nardole said, just before the Doctor applied their body directly to his body, soggily, and kissed him. The steam rising off them both, the splish-splash of his hands very casually, cooly flailing.

The Doctor drifted away, sinking down low. Eyes closed, listening to the ripples. “This is nice,” they said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Nardole said. “Seriously, we can not ever discuss this again, that’d be fine.”

“Would it?” The Doctor opened one eye, brows at a rakish angle. “We do need something to keep us busy, after all.”

Nardole swallowed audibly; the Doctor squinted both eyes shut firmly and slipped beneath the surface, floating, relaxing. Come to think it was really only in the 3420s that AI/Human relations resulted in any sort of measurable effects -


End file.
